


Justine's Family

by Englishtutor



Series: Justine's Family [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baby Lestrade is born, Gen, The family reacts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2018-08-23 16:36:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8334679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englishtutor/pseuds/Englishtutor
Summary: This is a series in the same AU as "A Watson When You Need One".  While the original series features Ian Watson, this series will feature Justine Lestrade, Ian's little sidekick.





	1. The Mystery of the Intriguing Family

Leota loved her work. Really, she did. As a part of the housekeeping staff of one of the best hospitals in London, she certainly had her share of sick to clean up, bedpans to empty, toilets to scrub. But Leota knew that clean beds and germ-free rubbish bins were as important to a patient’s recovery as top-notch medical care and attentive nursing.

And, sometimes, she was witness to some very entertaining and often fascinating bits of other people’s lives. It was like living in a soap opera, most days. Today, for example, she had a front-row seat to a blessed event in one of the most intriguing families she’d ever seen.

She was on the maternity ward—her favourite part of St Mary’s—when a heavily pregnant and rather frightened-looking patient was wheelchaired off the lift by a young, blond woman. This young blonde immediately began issuing orders to all and sundry as if she were a doctor herself, although Leota knew all of the doctors who worked in St Mary’s and Bossy Blonde was not one of them. 

“Dr Hooper! Dr Watson! We weren’t expecting you for another four weeks yet,” the head midwife greeted the women warmly. “How are we, then?”

Bossy Blonde replied for them both, of course. “Her water broke over twenty-four hours ago, and she has shown no signs of going into labour. I’m afraid we may have to induce.”

“Well, let’s find you a bed and then we’ll check you out,” the midwife smiled reassuringly. “I’ll be right back.”

“Mary, there’s something wrong with the baby. I just know it!” the Distraught Patient wailed softly. “She hasn’t moved in ages and it’s happening too early and I don’t want a C-section but I’m so scared there’s something wrong and maybe we should get her out as soon as possible, but what if that’s the wrong decision and I really wanted to have a natural birth in the Birthing Centre but that won’t be possible now, will it, but maybe it would be better to. . . .”

“Shush, Molly dear,” Bossy Blonde knelt by the wheelchair and gently brushed Distraught Patient’s hair from her face. “Calm down. We’ll make those decisions when we have more information. And whatever happens, we will deal with it together, yeah? It’ll be all right.” The girls held hands and waited. Leota smiled. Perhaps Bossy Blonde was so bossy because she was worried, too. Leota could forgive her for that.

And then the first intriguing development of the day occurred. The midwife returned with an odd look on her face. “I just talked with the chief administrator. You’re to be taken to the Lindo Wing and given the best en suite room available,” she informed them in a low tone. “Something about security. And you’re to be allowed any visitors you like, even children. It’s most unprecedented!”

Distraught Patient’s eyes grew wide with shock. Bossy Blonde’s eyes crinkled with laughter. “Mycroft!” they both exclaimed at once, Patient looking annoyed, Blonde looking pleased. Leota’s eyes widened as well. The Lindo Wing was reserved for those either wealthy enough to afford private care or important enough to require complete privacy and extra security. These ladies certainly did not look rich; and they were so surprised by this development that they obviously did not consider themselves important. But why would they need extra security?

Bossy Blonde pushed the wheelchair after the midwife, who led them down the corridor. Leota trailed behind a bit, her curiosity piqued. 

“How did he know?” Distraught Patient demanded. “Is he keeping us under surveillance? Still?”

“No, no, dear, it was me,” Bossy Blonde explained. “When we couldn’t reach any of the boys, I thought Mycroft was more likely to be able to track them down in a hurry than I would be. Of all times for them to take a case out of town!” 

Patient huffed impatiently. “When is he going to stop feeling he owes me something?” she sighed.

“Never,” Blonde chuckled. “It’s his way of staying in control. Just accept it and enjoy it, Molly. You’ll get the best care money can buy and not pay tuppence for it.”

000

It was hours before Leota’s duties required her to enter the Lindo Wing. As she pushed a broom down the corridor she could hear the small knot of employees gathered around the nurses’ station speculating about the mysterious young women in the private suite.

“They aren’t royalty, are they?”

“I heard they’re high-class criminals of some sort.”

“I heard they’re witnesses for the prosecution against some major crime boss.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. One of them’s Somebody in the government—that’s all it is.”

Leota spoke up. “I heard them talking earlier. Someone important owes them a favour,” she volunteered.

But before the others could question her further, the next intriguing development arrived in the form of three very dishevelled but extremely good-looking men striding quickly down the corridor. They could not have been more different from one another, yet together they made a striking sight. And they were headed straight for Distraught Patient’s door. All eyes followed them, drinking in the view. A few of the women sighed appreciatively. Speculation spewed like water from a fountain.

“Which one’s the father, then?”

“Gorgeous Grey—he’s gone into the room first, and the others aren’t disputing his right to do so.”

“Oh, but he’s so old! My money’s on Tall, Dark, and Handsome!”

“That’s your wishful thinking, is all.” 

“Obviously, it can’t be Handsome. Look at him--he’s having to be pushed in by the short one.” 

“The short one—Captain Adorable, I’d call him; he’s obviously the one in charge. Now there’s a chap who looks like the father-type— used to telling people what to do.”

“Maybe it doesn’t matter who the father is,” Leota offered the confused little group. “I saw them together, the patient and another woman—a Bossy Blonde. They were holding hands and all.”

“That was the Doula,” a voice said from behind them. The Matron frowned at the little knot of gossipers. 

Leota frowned as well. She knew that a doula generally developed a close, trusting relationship with her clients as their birthing coach and patient advocate. However, the affectionate bond between the two women she had witnessed seemed more than a business relationship.

“Have you nothing better to do? Get to work!” the Matron growled.

“But, you must know,” one of the interns ventured. “Which one’s the father?”

“The one who isn’t asked to leave when the time comes,” was all the reply they received.

They quickly dispersed. But the mysterious little family in the private suite remained the chief topic of hospital gossip all that day. Who were they? 

000

When Leota arrived for her shift the next morning, she connived to be assigned to the Lindo Wing straightaway. Entering the waiting area with her bucket and mop, she noticed Tall, Dark and Handsome slumped in one of the uncomfortable chairs beside Captain Adorable. So Gorgeous Grey was the father after all. She was happy that she had put her fiver on him in the betting pool.

Watching the two men surreptitiously as she worked, she noted that they had changed clothes and cleaned up since she had seen them the day before and so apparently had gone home sometime that night. However, they both looked as if they hadn’t slept at all; Adorable, in particular, had dark circles under his eyes. And yet they did not look grieved. Leota had worked at St. Mary’s long enough to know grief when she saw it. These men seemed quietly subdued, but also quite pleased. Mother and baby must be all right, then.

A sudden bustle brought an elderly woman into the waiting area with a small, blond boy in tow. The two men rose politely to greet her in warm, joyous tones, and the boy flung his arms around first Captain Adorable and then Tall, Dark and Handsome with great excitement.

“So, a girl, you said! And small, but healthy, the precious little thing. What a relief—what a joy! I brought tea,” Sweet Old Lady said, holding out a thermos bottle. “And some sandwiches. I know it’s odd, having sandwiches for breakfast, but you must be starved enough to eat anything.”

“I want to see Jussie!” the child cried in an exaggerated whisper, having apparently been told to be quiet in a hospital. “I want to see her!”

“We have to wait a bit, Ian,” Captain Adorable said gently but firmly. “The doctor will tell us when she can have visitors.”

“You ARE the doctor!” the boy exclaimed, jumping impatiently. “I NEED to see Jussie!”

“I’m not Justine’s doctor. We have to wait. Sherlock, you and Ian walk down to the gardens and have your tea, why don’t you? Just for a bit.” Captain A. gave his companion a significant look that quelled T. D. & H.’s initial scowl of protest. Soon, Tall, Dark and Handsome and the little boy were walking hand in hand down the corridor.

Captain Adorable invited Sweet Old Lady to have a seat and then sat close beside her silently. She reached over and took his hand in both of hers.

“It was a hard night,” Sweet Old Lady prompted him softly. “But she’s all right, isn’t she? Aren’t they both all right?”

“Oh, yes!” the man hastened to assure her. “Yes, they’re both fine, now. But it was quite an exciting night, to say the least. Her labour was unproductive for ever so long, and then when it was finally time to push, the baby’s heartrate dropped dramatically. It was as if all of poor Molly’s fears had come to pass. The doctor was called in and they were getting her ready to go to the operating theatre for a C-section when Molly suddenly said she would NOT have surgery if she could help it and gave one great Herculean push—and out came Justine all in one go! Mary said she was so impressed that she’s decided to build an altar to Molly–the-Goddess-of-Child-Bearing in Delphi next time we happen to go to Greece.”

Sweet Old Lady chuckled warmly. “Ah, our Mary. Nothing can frighten her out of her sense of humour, can it?”

Captain A. smiled. “No, I suppose not. But, well, Justine was born with the cord wrapped around her neck twice, blue and still and deathly quiet. Mary said it was the most horrifying thing she’d ever seen. It was a tense moment, I can tell you! The doctor revived the baby quickly, though, and doesn’t believe she suffered any permanent damage. She looks quite pink and perfect now. All’s well that ends well, yeah?”

“Oh, dear. Such a traumatic experience for a new mother,” the Lady dithered nervously. “Oh, I’m so glad it turned out all right. And how is dear Greg?”

“It’s been a long night, and Greg was calm as you please through it all, but once it was over he was a right mess. But he’s pulled himself together. He’s lost one child, you know; it would be too much if he lost Justine as well. Thank God, he’s been spared that.”

Leota then felt two pairs of eyes on her as all three of them suddenly realised that she hadn’t moved the mop in several spellbound minutes. She blushed hotly and turned away, scrubbing at the floor with a vengeance.

Before she’d finished, Tall, Dark and Handsome returned with the high-spirited little boy running ahead of him.

“Can we see her yet? Can we? Can we?” the child demanded, forgetting to whisper.

“Not yet, love,” Adorable said calmly. “Justine had a rough night. Getting born is hard work and she needs her rest.”

“Death and resurrection do always take it out of one,” Handsome muttered under his breath.

“You would know, dear,” Sweet Old Lady murmured enigmatically.

000

Sweet Old Lady was escorted out by Gorgeous Grey later that morning. “I’m so sorry, dear; it’s just my hip. I can’t sit in these miserable chairs,” Leota heard her explain as they went. 

“Now, Mrs H, we’re just glad you came by,” Gorgeous assured her, with affection in his gravelly voice. “Justine will have all her life to get to know her Gran.” He looked exhausted, as well he might, but immensely happy; gratitude simply oozed out of him. Leota thought it was beautiful.

But: “Mrs H?” And then “Gran?” How were all of those mysterious people related, anyway? Leota wondered.

An hour or so after lunch, she was instructed to go into the Mystery Room and clean the en suite bathroom and empty the bins. Leota was elated! A chance to see these intriguing people up close, and perhaps even speak to them.

She knocked softly on the door, and when there was no answer, gently eased it open and slipped in. The room was crowded with sleeping people. Leota smiled at them—how lovely they all were: uncomfortable and weary, and yet determined to stay together.

Distraught Patient, no longer distraught, was resting peacefully with a little smile on her face—Mona Lisa in repose. One hand reached towards the little cot where the baby lay. The other lay on the silver head of Gorgeous Grey. This poor chap was collapsed in a chair that had been drawn as close to the hospital bed as possible, his head on Patient’s pillow and one arm stretched beside her along the side of her bed. In his lap was precariously sprawled the little blond boy, boneless as children are wont to be when asleep.

On the rollaway guest bed next to him was curled the doula, Bossy Blonde, one hand draped over Gorgeous’ knee and her feet tucked snuggly beneath the thigh of Captain Adorable. Captain A. was sitting on the foot of the rollaway, one arm curled around Bossy’s bent knees, his legs stretched out in front of him, a pillow wedged between his head and the wall behind him.

Tall, Dark and Handsome had somehow folded his entire, long body into a metal-framed chair that was placed at the foot of the rollaway. His curly head lolled over onto Adorable’s shoulder, and he looked as child-like as the little boy in his equally boneless way.

Leota stepped quietly over to the baby’s cot to see the cause of all this excitement. The band on the child’s wrist said “Lestrade, Justine Marie”. And she was, as Adorable had claimed, pink and perfect. Her little rosebud mouth moved thoughtfully in her sleep and whispy brown curls framed her tiny face. Impossibly small hands had escaped the swaddling and lay spread on the blanket like soft starfish, dimpled and with perfect little nails.

“You can’t have her. She’s MY baby,” a small voice whispered behind her. Leota turned to smile down at the earnest face of the little blond boy, who had caught her in the act.

“Oh, you’re her big brother, are you?” she inquired, amused.

He frowned. “No. I’m a Watson,” was the enigmatic reply. “I’m Ian.”

“This isn’t your mother, then?” Leota pointed towards Patient.

The boy shook his head. “That’s my Aunt. Aunt Mollllly.” He rolled the l’s around on his tongue several times before letting go of them, as if he were trying hard to get them right.

“So you’re the baby’s cousin,” she concluded.

“No. I’m not a cousin. I’m a Watson,” the boy repeated insistently.

Leota was now determined that she should piece together the relationships between all of these fascinating people, who so obviously were a family but who had no family resemblance whatsoever. “But that’s your Aunt Molly’s husband next to her, yeah?” The child nodded.

“So that’s your uncle whose lap you were sleeping in.”

The child who called himself Ian shook his head. “That’s my Papa Greg. He’s my mum’s dad.”

This was a surprise! And yet, second marriages resulting in second families were not uncommon, Leota knew. But—Ian’s grandfather married Ian’s aunt? Leota shook her head. “So, if your mum and the baby have the same father, I guess that makes you the baby’s nephew,” she ventured hesitantly.

Ian Watson looked at her impatiently. “I am a Watson,” he pronounced carefully, as if she were slow-witted. “That’s my mum and dad, on the ovver bed. They are Watsons, so I am a Watson. Baby Jussie is not a Watson. She is a . . . .Llllestrade.” The difficult name seemed to strangle the child as he strove to shape it on his tongue.

“I see,” said Leota, who really didn’t see.

“And that’s my Uncle Sherllllock,” the boy added. “He’s not a Watson, eivver.”

“Is he a Lestrade, then?” Leota wondered.

At this, Ian looked puzzled. “His name is Homes. Hollllmes. But I fink Papa Greg is his dad. That what it seems to me.”

Leota felt better. If a member of this enigmatic family was unsure himself of how they were all related, how could she possibly figure it out? They all cared for each other, that was evident. What did it matter what they called one another? But still. . . .

“So, not brother, not cousin, not nephew,” she wondered. “What will the baby call you, then, Ian?”

“Best friend!” was the prompt reply, with a smile that lit up the room. “I’m Jussie’s best friend.” 

And really, Leota thought, what could be better?


	2. Poppies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a Remembrance Day story—I apologize for its tardiness. Real life tends to intrude itself into the writing time. My sincere thanks to mrspencil for being a patient and perfect Brit-picker and advisor and to the lovely Wynsom for beta-ing and for keeping me right.

The day Justine was to come home found the Lestrade flat filled to bursting with Watsons. At least, this was how the situation struck Sherlock when he arrived that afternoon, carrying a large, fragrant basket of baked goods on one arm and a humiliatingly large soft toy in the shape of a cat under the other. He was playing errand-boy this day and felt it deeply. He sighed.

Preparations for the Lestrade’s homecoming were in full swing. The flat had been a disaster area: Justine’s prolonged hospital stay -- fighting off a bout of pneumonia in her tiny, premature lungs -- had meant Greg and Molly spending every spare moment of the past two weeks by her side, only rushing home to change and grab quick, easy meals. Now John had tidied and sterilized the kitchen and was in the midst of preparing dinner; Mary had done mounds of laundry and was changing the bedding in the master bedroom; and Ian was laying the table, marching around with a fistful of cutlery and placing them with military precision by the dinner plates.

“Left forks, right knifes, left forks, right knifes,” the four-year-old chanted as he marched. Sherlock noticed that Ian’s mother had drawn a large, red star on the back of Ian’s left hand to aid in his remembering which was which.

“Bless Mrs Hudson!” John said cheerfully as he relieved Sherlock of his basket. “I only wish she hadn’t hurt her hip whilst baking these treats and could join us. And I take it this enormous cat is from you?” 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste. “I should say not! It’s from Mycroft,” he grumbled. This was not quite true: it was, in fact, from Anthea, but she had diplomatically put her employer’s name on the tag. Sadistically, John ignored Sherlock’s attempt to foist the soft toy off on him, dodging back into the kitchen to unpack Mrs Hudson’s gifts. Sherlock tossed the cat onto the couch, where it lay staring at him with a benign expression.

Ian, finished with his task, ran to embrace his uncle. “Here!” he cried, shoving a red poppy into Sherlock’s hand. “It’s ‘Membrance Day! Wear it! Wear it! It’s to say fanks to Dad!”

“It’s to remember those who died in the service of their country in war,” Sherlock corrected, affixing the poppy to his lapel. 

“Dad was inna war,” Ian reminded him seriously and danced into the kitchen to “help” his favorite war hero. Sherlock allowed a passing thought to horrify him of how close John had been to dying for his country, but shoved it aside in favour of being glad his friend was alive.

“Don’t bother arguing with him,” Mary advised, carrying an armload of towels through from the laundry room. She had two poppies in her hair. “You will never convince him that this is not about his father. In his mind, the Captain IS Her Majesty’s Armed Forces and no one else need apply. He’ll learn the truth soon enough.”

“Because deceiving preschoolers is a charming thing to do,” Sherlock muttered sarcastically. Mary chuckled fondly and stood on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. 

“Because hero-worshipping John Watson is entirely understandable,” she smiled impishly. “Lord knows, I worship him myself.” She bustled cheerily on into the bedroom, humming.

“Everyone knows you worship him yourself,” Sherlock replied to the space she had left behind and seated himself in an armchair, not certain what he was to do now that his part in the day’s preparations were complete. Mrs Hudson had ambushed him that morning and wheedled him into helping her as a delivery boy, since she had worn herself out with baking. Then Anthea had appeared at the kerb when his cab arrived and had handed him this embarrassment of a soft toy. It was all so degrading for a famous consulting detective, reduced to a servant’s status by his own family. And now that his task was accomplished, what was he meant to do with himself?

Ian walked carefully into the room, a cup of tea clutched in both hands. “Here, Uncle Sherlllock,” he said. This new pronunciation of his name made the detective smile sadly. It was fascinating to observe the child grow and develop in leaps and bounds; but there came an odd catch in his throat, all the same.

“Breaks your heart, doesn’t it?” John remarked as he returned from the kitchen and collapsed on the couch beside the cat. “Molly nearly burst into tears the first time he called her by her proper name instead of ‘Aunt M’y’.”

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed unconvincingly. “His language is developing naturally. It would be worrying if it wasn’t.”

“Mmm-hmm,” John nodded, amused, and put his feet up. Everyone (except Sherlock) had been working hard that day; everyone (except Sherlock) had, in fact, been run ragged for the past two weeks as they rallied around the Lestrades and helped as much as possible. Sherlock felt a bit at a loss—he had not been much help to anyone at all of late. He had not felt much a part of things in a quite a little while.

The fact was, he had not felt much attachment to the Lestrade child. It was not that he did not care about Justine’s parents—he did, very much. But Molly was a very reserved young woman. Whilst Mary, who had not a reserved bone in her body, had deliberately involved Sherlock in every bit of her pregnancy and had even demanded his help in a number of ways, Molly had been shy about sharing aspects of her experience with anyone other than her husband and Mary. This was, of course, perfectly normal. It was Mary’s behaviour that was consistently odd! But while Sherlock had already felt a part of Ian’s life before he was born, Justine had never seemed fully real to him and still did not. Even now, two weeks later, there was no reason for him to feel connected with the newest member of the family. He felt no need, really, to develop a relationship with someone who did not need him.

Ian was stuffing a poppy into John’s shirt pocket. “Come help me now, Dad,” he demanded. “Jussie NEEDS poppies!”

“I’ve been on my feet all day, Ian. Let me have bit of a breather. Uncle Sherlock can help you,” John looked at his friend pleadingly. 

Ian grabbed Sherlock’s hand in both of his and pulled. “Come on! Come on! She be here soon!” he urged.

The detective allowed himself to be dragged into the master bedroom. Mary was in the ensuite bath, scrubbing the shower. The room was tidy and clean, the bed neatly made, and there beside the bed was a baby’s cot, soft blankets folded at the foot and, floating over the head, a garish and rather macabre mobile. Sherlock had helped Ian to make this contraption from parts of a Mr Potato Head toy—eyes, noses, lips, hands, and even a tongue drifted above the little cot. Sherlock smiled. 

“Jussie needs poppies,” Ian explained. “She can’t wear ‘em—she might eat ‘em! Mum say to hang them from the bomile so she can see and not touch.”

“Mobile,” Sherlock corrected gently. 

“There’s a spool of thread on the dresser you can use,” Mary called in from the bath.

Ian presented a fistful of poppies for Sherlock to tie onto the “bomile”. “Why so many?” Sherlock wondered.

“Mum say Jussie is a fighter. She fight the germs like a so-jer. She’s reallllly little, but she’s strong!” Ian explained with his four-year-old logic. Sherlock nodded understandingly. Justine the soldier, valiantly defeating pneumonia before she had even known the comforts of home! Sherlock admired the baby’s spirit. He attached the poppies, directed by an earnest preschooler, and pondered the idea of welcoming another hero into the family.

“They’re here!” John called, his footsteps rushing to the front door. There was a flurry of greetings and hugs and exclamations of joy over the baby’s recovered health and long-awaited homecoming. Sherlock stood back a ways and watched. How easily they all did these things. 

Greg, his daughter cradled against one shoulder, looked over and caught the detective’s eye. “Sherlock. Would you mind? I, erm, need to take off my coat.” He nodded down at the baby.

Justine was feather-light in Sherlock’s arms, fragrant and soft. She looked up at him soberly with Molly’s brown eyes. Strangely, against all logical possibilities, he saw aspects of Justine’s entire, unlikely family in her face. There was Greg’s strength and Molly’s patience; Mary’s courage and John’s honor; even Ian’s curiosity was there. And there was an innate intelligence behind the eyes that he recognized as what looked back at him from the mirror. Perhaps all children were born with these qualities innately. Perhaps these virtues only needed to be nourished and encouraged in order to be maintained. Ah! A reason to be needed.

Greg’s coat was off and he reached to take his daughter back into his arms. Sherlock ignored him, ignored the smiles and knowing looks that darted between the amused members of his annoying family, and walked away into the living room holding his fascinating new niece, who had just fought the fight of a lifetime with the strength, patience, courage, and honor of a true soldier.

“Let me introduce you to this cat,” he said companionably. “I believe its name is Poppy, in honor of your special day.”


	3. Simply Having

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to the amazing mrspencil for Brit-picking and to the wonderful Wynsom for beta-ing and for giving this chapter the perfect title. You ladies keep me right!
> 
> This is based on happenings and conversations with my four-year-old grandson and my 18-month-old granddaughter. My grandson is quiet and contemplative, verbally advanced, serious-minded with a scientific bent. My granddaughter is loud and exuberant, has never been still and has never wanted to lie down. She was walking at nine months, running at ten months, and bouncing on her first trampoline at 12 months. They could not be more different, but they understand each other perfectly.

He crawled out from under the Christmas tree--having secured it to its stand and then having spent a great deal of time adjusting it to the satisfaction of the womenfolk -- and struggled to his feet only to be handed a great knotted tangle of fairy lights and instructed to “do something with this lot, please, dear.”

Greg sat in John’s armchair (as it was still known, even though John no longer lived at 221B Baker Street) to work on this new project and looked about at the activity in the comfortably familiar flat with a warm satisfaction in his chest. It had been, for the past six years, a tradition on the first weekend of December for as many of the family as was free to make Sherlock’s flat festive for the season. * This was the first such time in years that had found them all free, and so the little family had decided to make a party of the event. 

Youtubed Christmas carols played softly from Sherlock’s confiscated laptop and a warm fire crackled in the fireplace as Molly and Mary wound garland around the room and put wreaths in the windows and over the mantelpiece. John and Mrs Hudson clattered in the kitchen, the doctor busy with brewing his special eggnog and the housekeeper with baking gingerbread. Ian had paper and crayons spread out on the coffee table, busy creating ornaments of his own design; his Irish setter, Gladstone, lay at his side like a great, feathery dust mop.

And Sherlock—who always treated this annual event with a resigned indulgence, but refused to chip and help as it would “encourage the madness”—was in his own armchair with Justine propped up in one arm. Just eight weeks old, the littlest Lestrade was gazing upwards in rapt attention, mesmerized by his voice as the consulting detective read to her from a medical journal. “Meissner’s corpuscles, as a type of mechanoreceptor, are capable of detecting the lightest touch to the skin. . . .” he droned, and Justine reached up to grab at Sherlock’s chin with both tiny hands as if to test this statement.

Sherlock had apparently decided that he was best qualified to guide the baby’s early education, and Greg and Molly were actually quite grateful to him for the attention. While Greg’s first daughter, Rose, had been a quiet and complacent infant and Ian Watson had been a studious and sombre one, Justine was a fussy and frequently unhappy little girl with a powerful set of lungs. Their paediatrician had assured them, as had John, that there was nothing wrong with her—that her nearly month-long stay in hospital, first because of her premature status followed by a fight with pneumonia, had no lingering consequences. She was a perfectly normal baby who happened to be miserable a good bit of the time. But they had a lot of help from their friends, who were always ready to step in and give the exhausted parents a break; and Sherlock had been especially willing, oddly enough, to spend time with Justine.

Greg worked out the tangles from the first string of fairy lights and handed it over to the girls, who began winding them through the branches of the fir tree, singing along to “Jingle Bell Rock” as they did so. Mrs Hudson handed him a full mug of eggnog and he took a grateful sip before tackling string number two. And then Justine began to wail as if her heart would break. Sherlock stopped reading and looked at her with a sigh. Greg began to rise.

“Let me,” John said, handing the mug of eggnog he was carrying over to his wife and taking the baby from his friend. “She’s had enough of corpuscles and receptors for one day.” Sitting on the sofa, he held her upright with her little feet on his knees and began to bounce her up and down. They had all learned very quickly that Justine did not like to lie down—she wanted to be upright and, most of the time, to be moving about. She loved to bounce, and if she felt something solid under her feet would push herself up and down energetically. 

“This is the way the ladies ride: tri tre, tri tre, tri tre,” John crooned in his pleasant tenor, and Justine stopped her fussing and began to gurgle happily. Gladstone, curious about this new activity, rose and wandered over to watch, shoving his wet nose against John’s hand. “This is the way the gentlemen ride: gallop-a-trot, gallop-a-trot. This is the way the farmers ride: hobbledy-hoy, hobbledy-hoy.”

“A child’s brain is hard-wired to learn language from birth,” Sherlock sternly informed whoever would listen. “They devour vocabulary as birds devour crumbs. To feed her with nonsense words is to do a grave disservice to her development.”

“Everyone needs a bit of nonsense in their lives, Sherlock. Don’t we, Jussy? Yes, we do,” John smiled, and Justine cooed back and did enthusiastic deep-knee bends, balanced on his thighs.“This child has very strong legs, you know that? She’ll be walking early, I wager.”

Ian had followed his dog, abandoning his colourful task in favour of a more appealing pastime. “It’s not nonsense. It’s omna. . .onma. . .motna. . .”

“Onomatopoeia. Well done, Ian,” John supplied, proving that he also subscribed to the early development of a good vocabulary, nonsense words notwithstanding. Her game interrupted, Justine began to protest loudly and push harder with her little feet. John obediently began bouncing her again. “This is the way the ladies ride. . . .”

“That’s a terribly sexist song, Captain. I’m quite ashamed,” Mary scolded teasingly. “Don’t you think so, Molly?’

“I do,” Molly nodded somberly. “I can’t believe you are teaching this to my daughter, John. The ladies can gallop-a-trot as well as any gentlemen, I’m sure.”

“That’s quite true; as well as, and better,” John agreed gravely. “And they can also out-hobbledy-hoy the very best of farmers.”

“Now that’s rather classist, don’t you think, John,” Greg put his oar into the banter. “Why can’t the farmers gallop-a-trot along with the gentlemen, is what I always ask myself.”

“I believe it’s more to do with the breed of horses they use than anything,” John explained with a completely straight face. “I’m sure that if the farmers could get thoroughbreds to pull a plow they would all happily gallop-a-trot in their spare time. But can they tri-tre as well as the ladies can, I wonder?”

Sherlock was watching this exchange with an incredulous look. “You’ve all gone entirely mad,” he concluded. “I believe I must sue for custody of your children before you’ve completely ruined their vulnerable minds.” 

Mary was shaking with laughter by this time. “So long as you bring them to visit us in Bedlam on weekends and holidays,” she chuckled. Sherlock rolled his eyes and returned to his journal.

The last bit of wire untangled, Greg stood and began to string the fairy lights along the mantle and around the bookcases, listening to the music and to the cheerful giggling of John and Ian playing games with Justine. Sherlock and John had turned his life around in many ways over the years, Greg mused as he hummed along with a soulful rendition of ‘O Holy Night’. Sherlock had quickly helped him to achieve the highest clear-up rate in the history of Scotland Yard and had slowly helped him to let go of his disaster of a marriage. A man could not live long in self-deceit with the genius detective as a consultant! But John had given him what he had been unable to find either on the job or in his private life: the friendship of an equal. Greg’s counterparts and superiors at NSY were frequently jealous or resentful of him—or worse, intimidated by him. And although Greg enjoyed the respect of his subordinates, he could not confide in them or be entirely himself with them. But in John, he found a friend who understood Greg’s job and the world they both lived in; a mate for whom there was no need to impress or to guide; a fellow soldier well-acquainted with their common battlefield. With both Sherlock and John, Greg could be entirely himself, strengths and weaknesses alike, without fear. It was a rare gift for which he was very grateful.

Now Justine had had enough of bouncing and was, though not quite crying, complaining about it in a whiny tone.John stood and began to walk about with her, to no good affect.

Mary turned from the tree, which she and Molly were festooning with bright, shining ornaments. “Oh, do stop pinching that baby, John Watson!” she teased. “Come on, Justine! You’ve had enough of the menfolk, haven’t you?” she soothed and swept the baby into a graceless dance to the tune now playing on the laptop. Greg and John exchanged knowing looks, both smiling affectionately. Their Mary had no sense of rhythm whatever, but Justine did not seem to mind.

“The mood is right. The spirit’s up. We’re here tonight, and that’s enough. Simply having a wonderful Christmas time!” she danced and sang, and Justine happily babbled along. Gladstone gave one excited bark and wove himself around and around Mary’s feet as she danced, frequently tripping her up.

“Come here, Gladstone!” John ordered, and dog reluctantly slunk to sit by his chair at the fireside. “She’s unbalanced enough without your help,” John grinned, and Mary stuck her tongue out at him.

“I wanna dance, too!” Ian cried. “Me, too!”

“I’ll dance with you, Little Bear.” Molly put down the box of tinsel she was holding and picked him up, swaying about the room and singing along.

Greg could not stop a satisfied smile from gracing his face as he watched these two lovely women and these two precious children, four people whom he loved with all his life, dancing about a warm and homely room all draped with Christmas cheer. It was hard for him to grasp that such beauty existed in his world. His life had changed drastically since this time last year, and it was all due to them. Mary had charged into his life six years ago-- his Rose come back to him again-- and claimed him as a father, pulling him past the friendships he had already formed with Sherlock and John and into a strange little family. + And then she had dragged Molly into this family circle as well. 

Greg had never particularly noticed Molly except as a brilliant and trustworthy pathologist whose help was often invaluable to his investigations. But his interest perked up when she and Mary began committing crimes together in order to solve a murder. ** And then, last Christmas, Ian quite innocently and naively nudged them into going on a date; the rest was history. ++ Here he was, one year later, with a wife who loved him and a child he would die for, happier than he ever thought he deserved to be. His thoughts began to circle along with the whirling dancers—if he hadn’t met Sherlock, he’d never have met John; if he hadn’t become friends with John, he’d never have met Mary; if he’d never met Mary, he’d never have learned to know Molly. And if not for Molly, there would be no Justine.

Mrs Hudson handed him a plate of biscuits and then seated herself on the sofa to sip her own eggnog. The mother to the lot of them, she smiled at the antics of the young people indulgently. She patted his arm. “Look at the little love,” she murmured, nodding towards the dancers. Justine, he could see, had fallen asleep on Mary’s shoulder.

“Here, let me take her, dear,” Mrs Hudson said to Mary, who gratefully placed the now dead weight of the exhausted baby into the grandmotherly embrace. Greg seated himself beside her and was immediately climbed upon by an affectionate Ian, who helped himself to his Papa’s gingerbread.

“She’s a bit of a manic-depressive, our Justine, isn’t she?” he remarked cheerfully. “Mood swings and all.”

“She’s a perfectly normal baby,” Mrs Hudson admonished gently. “We all have our own little quirks, don’t we?”

“She’s not many-pressif,” Ian objected. “Jussy’s bored.”

Molly, who had resumed bedecking the tree with bows, turned around. “Bored?”

Ian nodded earnestly. “She wants to run and jump and fings. But she can’t, so she gets fuss . . . fuss-stated. She’s bored wiff being a baby.”

“A very sensible assessment, Ian,” Sherlock commended the four-year-old. “I had come to the same conclusion myself, as I am very familiar with being bored and frustrated.”

“Well, she won’t be a baby for long, if you are any measure,” Mary chuckled ruefully. “You’ve grown up far too quickly.”

“Yes, she’ll be running around and climbing the walls soon enough,” John agreed. “And then won’t we all be in trouble!”

Greg sat back, hugging his grandson to him comfortably, and surveyed his odd little family once again. When he had been raising his Rose, he had been completely on his own. He would not trade a moment of her life, but it had been lonely and difficult, and when she died his grief had been a private and secret thing. But Justine would have a whole loving family to dote upon her and to guide her; and Greg and Molly would never be alone, whatever happened. 

This was, he realised, the very best Christmas he’d ever had. 

 

** See “Breaking and Entering” in “Forging a Family”

++ See “Puppies and Proposals” in “A Watson When You Need One”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 000
> 
> Authors Note: If you also follow my main AU, “The Other Doctor Watson”, this particular Christmas corresponds to the story “The Danger of Light and Joy.” In this AU, Mary does not lose her baby and does not die and Molly never moves to Edinborough—therefore Molly and Greg marry a year earlier than in the main AU.
> 
> *This tradition began the year John and Mary married. See “Christmas!” in “A Watson When You Need One”. 
> 
> +See “By Any Other Name” in “Forging a Family”


	4. Language Arts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As ever, Ian and Justine are based on my grandchildren, each of whom is precocious in his or her own special way.

“Honey, I’m home!” Molly cried out as she entered her flat, chortling at her own little joke. Justine, hearing her mother’s voice, charged into the entryway, shrieking with delight, and flung her arms around Molly’s left leg. 

“I’m in the kitchen, dear,” Mary called. “Have a sit-down and I’ll bring your tea right in.”

Molly picked up her daughter, and the eleven-month-old endured a few seconds of snuggles and kisses before struggling to be set free again. Justine had begun toddling at the early age of nine months. But she had not had patience with toddling for long, skipped walking altogether, and had quickly begun to race about and to climb up furniture like some wild animal on amphetamines.

The young pathologist sighed and dragged her tired feet into her sitting room to plop down onto the couch. Ian was on the floor at the coffee table before her, busy with some project of his own that seemed to involve several reams of paper, dozens of markers, and a roll of sellotape.

“Hi, Aunt Molly,” the five-year-old said cheerfully. “I’m writin’ a book.” He appeared completely unruffled by the blurred streak which was Justine tearing round and round the table at which he was quietly working.

“Oh, just like your father, then!” Molly winked. “Is it a mystery?” John Watson had recently published his first novel, based upon his blog, and it was flying off the bookstore shelves.

“Nah. It’s for Jussie. It’s a alphabet book,” Ian told her, holding up the page he was working on. ‘C’, the text explained, ‘is for Corpse.’ A colourful picture of a dead body illustrated the idea. “Mum’s helping me with the spelling.”

Molly picked up the pages Ian had already completed. “’A is for Alibi.’ And I see the criminal is in the pub having drinks with his mates. Naturally. ‘B is for Brains.’ This is a very passable drawing of the human brain, love. Well done.”

“’D’ is meant to be for ‘Detective’ and ‘E’ will be for . . . .”

“’Evidence’, yeah, I’m getting the pattern,” Molly chuckled. “This is a lovely idea, Ian. Maybe Justine will start talking after you read your book to her.”

She really did hope so, even if the child’s vocabulary was doomed to be rather macabre. Molly was beginning to feel very worried about Justine’s complete lack of interest in speaking actual words. The child made lots of noise, oh yes! Screams, squeals, grunts, cries, and peals of laughter; but nothing that seemed to resemble human speech. 

“Jussie talks a lot. Just not in English,” Ian said enigmatically. But before Molly could question him further, Mary appeared with the tea tray. Justine stopped running and loudly demanded a biscuit with wordless shouts and meaningful gestures. Ian quietly accepted his milk tea and digestives with a polite, “thanks, Mum.”

The two friends exchanged news of the day as they sipped their tea. Molly enjoyed describing the intriguing body of a supposedly-murdered man who, as it turned out, had died of a rare allergy. Mary was fun to talk to about work: as a medical professional herself, she had no problem following Molly’s thought processes, and as a lover of mysteries she was excited by the challenges Molly sometimes faced in finding out a cause of death. 

Mary cheerfully outlined her far more pedestrian day: school work with Ian in the morning, naps after lunch, a walk to the park in the afternoon. “Next week, I will need to keep the children at my flat instead of coming here. I have some science experiments in mind to do with Ian. I think Justine might enjoy them as well— there should be plenty of messy goo involved!” She grabbed a damp cloth from the tea tray and wiped Justine’s hands, which were covered with a soggy paste of dissolved biscuit.

Molly frowned. She loved her job. But sometimes she felt a nagging guilt about leaving Justine every day. Was she missing out on her daughter’s childhood? And sometimes she felt guilty for depending on Mary to care for her child. Was it unfair that she should be able to continue to pursue an interesting career whilst Mary was stuck at home? She sighed, her mind swirling with self-doubt and worry.

“Justine was saying “muh muh” today,” Mary was saying. “I think she’s finally becoming interested in expressing herself verbally.”

Justine looked up at her aunt and gave her a gummy grin full of mashed biscuit. “Muh muh muh muh,” she agreed, reaching for another treat.

This brought a wistful smile back to Molly’s face. “Yes, she was saying it last night, too. She’s been saying ‘dah dah’ for ever so long; it’s about time she learnt my name, too. Here’s another, darling,” she handed Justine an arrowroot biscuit.

Any happiness she had gained from Justine’s new word was soon snatched away from her. “Jussie don’t mean ‘Mama’ when she says ‘muh’,” Ian informed them helpfully, unaware that he was breaking his Aunt Molly’s heart. “She means she’s hungry. ‘Muh’ means ‘food’.” Yes, tearing out her heart and stomping on it.

Molly was mortified to feel tears prickle in her eyes. She pressed her lips together and tried not to sniff. What on earth was wrong with her? She’d been so emotional since Justine was born.

“Are you sure, Ian? It sounds like she’s saying ‘Mama’ to me,” Mary was objecting.

“I should stay home with her, shouldn’t I?” Molly murmured, her voice quavering a bit. “She doesn’t even know who I am, does she?”

“Of course she does!” Mary rallied her firmly. “Didn’t she go rushing to the door to greet you when you came in?”

“But . . . but, Mary, Ian was speaking whole sentences at her age. If I hadn’t abandoned her, perhaps she wouldn’t be so far behind verbally.” Molly leant over to retrieve the half-gnawed biscuit her busy daughter had dropped to the floor.

“Abandoned! I like that! She has the best caregiver in London!” Mary declared, feigning indignation. “And, far behind! Molly Lestrade! What on earth are you saying? She’s eleven months old! She has plenty of time to decide to start talking.”

Molly looked sadly at her off-spring, who was at that moment babbling nonsense syllables at Ian. Soberly, Ian was listening as raptly as if he were hearing an eloquent soliloquy. Then he trotted into the kitchen and returned carrying a sippy cup filled with apple juice. Justine burbled happily and grabbed it in both messy hands.

“Anyway,” Mary had continued during all this activity, “do you remember how worried I was about Ian when he was Justine’s age? He showed absolutely no interest in walking, did he? He just scootched along on his little bum when he wanted to go anywhere. I thought he’d never walk on his own two legs.”

Mary had a way of coaxing smiles onto Molly’s face. “You once told me that you were certain you’d be pushing Ian to University in a bath chair,” she chuckled.

“’Oh, no, sir, he isn’t crippled,’” Mary quoted her imaginary self in a falsetto voice. “’He just can’t be bothered to stand up.’ But he did, didn’t he? In his own good time. Justine will start talking when she’s ready. Honestly, Molly, you know you can’t compare children’s progress like that. They each develop in their own time and in their own, unique ways.”

“I know,” Molly sighed. She grabbed the damp cloth and cleaned Justine’s hands and face. “But I can’t help feeling that if I had stayed at home longer, she might. . . . I don’t know. . . . be . . . .Well, you stayed home with Ian and he’s a little genius!”

“I’m a genius like Uncle Sherlock!” Ian agreed, nodding wisely. “He said so.” His mother patted his head and chuckled indulgently. 

“And you have your uncle’s humility, as well,” she agreed, then turned and gently chided Molly. “You can’t compare children any more than you can compare adults. I mean, what if someone were to compare us to each other? ‘Look at that brilliant Molly Lestrade, making a difference in the world by helping to solve crimes! And then look at that idle drudge, Mary Watson, throwing her career away to muck about with laundry and chase babies around all day.”

“I’m not a baby!” Ian protested loudly. “I’m five!”

“Of course, darling,” his mother soothed. “And I’m not an idle drudge, either, am I? Nor am I throwing away my career—I keep my oar in as a locum. And Molly, you know full well that I stayed home with Ian because he’s so advanced—he isn’t advanced because I stayed home. I’m doing what’s best for my family. You’re doing what’s best for yours. You were desperate to return to work, you know you were. You’d be so unhappy to leave it, and Justine would not be better off with an unhappy, unfulfilled mother, now would she?”

Molly frowned thoughtfully. The fact was, she did compare herself to Mary sometimes. She often wished she had her friend’s self-confidence.

Justine, who had been scurrying about and rolling toys on the floor, now grabbed Molly’s hand and pulled, vocalizing insistently. “What is it, Jussie?” Molly asked.

“Lah lah lah lah lah!” the child earnestly explained.

“Oh, darling, I wish I knew what you wanted,” her mother sighed. “Do you want me to sing a song?”

“She wants her ball,” Ian told her. “’Lah’ means round things. When she says it over and over, it usually means ‘ball’.” He rummaged under the couch and produced a soft, squashy, round toy, striped with bright colours. Justine squealed with delight and snatched it from his hands, throwing it over the table and running after it.

Both women turned to stare at him in astonishment. “You really can understand what she’s saying!” Mary realized. “How on earth?”

Ian shrugged. “I d’duced it,” he said. “Obviously.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, obviously. You must write us a dictionary so we can all interpret her, too.”

“Honey, I’m home!” called a gravelly voice from the front door. Justine screeched with excitement and streaked to the entryway, followed closely by an only slightly more sedate Ian.

Greg lurched awkwardly into the sitting room, a child sitting on each foot and clinging to a leg. “Who needs a gym membership with these two in residence?” he grinned, kissing first his wife and then Mary.

“Dah-dah! Dah-dah!” Justine gushed adoringly, grabbing fistfuls of trouser as she attempted to scale her father. Ian, on his other side, was swinging from Greg’s bent arm like a trapeze artist.

“I suppose ‘dah dah’ means ‘play with me’, or perhaps, ‘spoil me rotten,’” Molly laughed.

Ian dropped to his feet. “Nah. It just means ‘Dad’.”

Molly grinned wryly. “Of course it would, wouldn’t it?”

Greg finally picked up his daughter and nuzzled her soft neck, making her squeal. He flashed a proud smile at his wife. “Well, Molly, you’re the hero of the day! Dimmock was singing your praises to anyone who would listen. Be expecting a great bunch of roses waiting for you at work tomorrow.”

Molly’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Why, that ‘murder’ victim you cleared up today! Dimmock was about to pull the man’s wife in and charge her with first degree when he got Mike’s call just in time. You saved that poor woman going through a murder trial—and quite possibly she would have been found guilty, on the evidence he had before you went back and redid the autopsy. He would have had an innocent woman convicted and would never even have known it. And Mike was that pleased, too. He said you did Bart’s proud today. Said he doubted one pathologist in a million would have caught on to that rare allergy.”

“Oh!” Molly didn’t know what to say. She looked over at Mary, who was wearing an annoying ‘I told you so’ grin on her face. “I just . . . did my job, that’s all.”

Greg set a wriggling Justine on her feet and knelt by his wife and took her hand in his. “Yes, you did. Better than anyone else could! I’m proud of you, Molls. You make the world a better place.” Leaning over, he kissed her tenderly.

Justine hurled herself in between her parents and climbed onto Molly’s lap. “Beh beh beh!” she cooed happily, patting her mother’s face tenderly with both tiny hands.

“What’s she saying, Ian?” Mary asked, amused.

“’I love you’,” Ian interpreted. “She says she loves you. I think she’s proud of you, too, Aunt Molly!”

“Of course she is!” Mary said proudly. “Her mother’s a brilliant woman!”


End file.
